Un rêve peut mourir
by ferain1832
Summary: AU: It is June 1832 and the barricades have fallen. Enjolras is the only one of the Friends of the ABC to survive.
1. Chapter 1

"We shall sell ourselves dearly," Enjolras said.

As the door below began to give way, Enjolras ordered to hack away the stairs. Himself he turned to the bottles he had saved to the last, distributing them hastily, two to each man, at the back of his feverish mind wondering why the assailants by the door fell silent.

Before they could put them to use, the floor shook. There was a sudden roar in the distance, the walls disintegrated into fragments of stone and wood, the sky itself seemed to cave in as the heavy smoke from outside permeated into the _Corinth_.

The last thought that crossed Enjolras's mind as he collapsed against the wall, thrown back by the impact, feeling something warm slither in several places at once, was that Prouvaire's talk of dragons must have been correct.

Then there was a sharp pain in his chest, the echo of someone crying _Vive la République_ and slowly, darkness.

OOO

The pain continued, in strange leaping bursts, at each leap intensifying slightly, these increasing in frequency until the pain was nearly unbearable and Enjolras was forced to prise his eyes open.

There was flawless blue sky above him that somehow seemed to move jerkily in time with the bursts of pain.

He was lying on something soft but lumpy, occasionally even sharp. Rather curious now, Enjolras forced his head to the side and saw first ordinary multi-storied houses, also rolling slowly past, and then -

A corpse was staring at him, a bloody mess instead of one eye, a contorted expression of pain and anger on his white face.

He started to the side in shock, provoking such a pang that it seemed as if someone had plunged a knife straight into his chest.

He was alive, Enjolras reasoned, so much was evident. But where was he and why? It was as if his head was filled with cotton. Vague shreds of images fluttered around his mind, culminating in a clear image of a towering barricade. Was he a prisoner? They seemed to be on a cart of sorts, were they taking him to an execution?

Enjolras could not rightly tell but what he knew for sure was that he had to escape. They would be waiting for him on the barricade.

He raised himself up a little, clenching his teeth, trying to remain unseen, then looked around. They seemed to be entering a square, the cart slowing down with each second, the reason being a crowd that was gathering around them. Two soldiers in National Guard uniform were walking in front, rifle in hand.

Sensing that his powers were about to give in, Enjolras took a deep breath and threw himself off the edge of the cart, straight into a group of women huddling together on the pavement.

The last thing he felt before darkness enveloped him again was being hauled somewhere forward into the crowd.

OOO

"_Maman_, when will he wake up?"

The voice was too shrill and close for Enjolras's liking. He opened his eyes and saw a small face peering into his own.

"Look, _maman_!" the little girl exclaimed, laughing. "Look, I made him come alive!"

"Quiet, Annette," another voice said. A woman approached the bed and leant towards Enjolras with a fond smile. "Monsieur Enjolras needs rest."

"How… do you know," Enjolras tried to say, displeased to find his voice so weak, "who I am?"

"Why, my husband," the woman said, putting an hand on Enjolras's forehead. "Pierre Dupont, the cabinet maker, perhaps you remember him? He was with you on the barricade, then you sent him away because of family. And very grateful to you I am, Monsieur Enjolras. It's all very well to be heroes but when there are five mouths to feed…!"

"The barricade?" Enjolras interrupted, trying to sit up. "Is it - "

"Get down," the woman said, pushing him back gently. "The Lord knows how much bother I had with you. Near a month you lie here looking as you would depart any moment."

"A month?"

"26 days," Annette said, climbing onto the edge of the bed. "I've been counting, monsieur, ever since _maman_ brought you. I even prayed for you, monsieur."

"Hush, Annette!"

"Just tell me, please," Enjolras whispered, "the barricade?"

"The Chanvrerie one? Destroyed, my dear."


	2. Chapter 2

They told him later, when he had regained some strength, that Madame Dupont and a friend of hers took him in when he literally fell into their arms. They were patriotic women and shielded the bleeding, limp insurgent with their skirts. The soldiers did not stop to investigate the sudden murmur among the women, they had enough on their minds with the difficult task of driving the cart full of bodies through the poverty-stricken areas north of the Seine.

Recovery was slower than Enjolras wanted. After another month he was allowed to get up and attempt pacing around the tiny room, holding himself up with the walls, trying to come to terms with two momentous events.

The first was painful to believe but easy to acknowledge. The barricade had fallen. Enjolras still only had an imperfect memory of the events which made it hard to figure out what precisely had gone wrong. Still, the difficulty only gave him something to occupy his mind during his bedridden period and fill the hollowness that the other event had left.

It did not seem true. Any moment now and Combeferre would walk into the room, sigh, shake his head and come to sit beside him on the edge of the bed, taking Enjolras's hand in his. The only reason why Courfeyrac was not in view must have been because Madame Dupont was afraid he would overexcite Enjolras with his joyous laughter that could fill a room. Joly and Bossuet must be away helping Prouvaire pick out herbs for a medicine the latter had read in some ancient manuscript, Bossuet stepping on more flowers than he picked. Feuilly and Bahorel were probably occupied over the same problem as himself, hoping to have something to report to him once he was back. Grantaire… he was waiting in the Musain, Enjolras was sure of it, sitting in that corner watching the door, perhaps even harbouring the news that the glorious sight of revolution in full flight has persuaded him to quit drinking…

Enjolras said goodbye to the Duponts on the 10th of August. As always, when he heard the date he thought first of the besieging of the Tuileries in 1792, only afterwards that it was his birthday.

To celebrate, Enjolras decided to do what he had always done - to go to the Musain. In previous years, he always found Courfeyrac there before him, ready to throw himself on his neck and congratulate him, knocking off his top hat and then admonishing him for being so dreadfully out of fashion.

The front room of the Musain was as busy as always. Enjolras picked his way through the clients, still a little unsteady on his feet, past the crooked tables and the faded _menu du jour_ blackboard, heading to the familiar chipped door that led into the meeting place of the Friends of the ABC.

The map of revolutionary Paris stared at him from the opposite wall. The only sound breaking the dreadful silence was the clicking of his own heels as he crossed the room and sat down at one of the tables, his usual one.

There was dust on the tabletop. Enjolras wiped it off with his sleeve, then suddenly clenched his teeth, digging his fingers into the edge of the chair, trying his utmost to stop the tears that unexpectedly obscured his vision.

He stood up, head held high, focusing on the scrap of blue sky that could be visible through the tiny window. It looked back, callous in its unblemished clearness.

Taking a deep breath that rattled in his chest, Enjolras turned back and noticed a dusty pile of mismatched items on another table in the corner. Curious, he picked one up, then realised with a shudder what they were.

Gently, almost tenderly, Enjolras blew the dust off each item: a detailed sketch of a moth, a single white glove, a weathered copy of Juvenal's poems with a dried violet as a bookmark, a torn out page with a few words in a foreign language written by a slightly unsteady hand that pressed the pen too much, a scarlet handkerchief with several drops of a darker red, a 5 francs coin, some pages from what seemed to be a thesis on miasma, finally a crumbled piece of paper that Enjolras straightened up, revealing a stained, incomplete but surprisingly candid sketch of himself.

A hesitant female voice startled him:

"Monsieur Enjolras?"

Enjolras turned around and saw Louison.

"Goodness, Monsieur," she breathed out, "did you scare me! I set you apart straight off, it's the hair, you know. I thought you were a ghost. You don't half look like one too, I've never known you paler! Oh, have you got the things I put apart? I couldn't bring myself to throw them away, you see. I hoped maybe one of you survived after all."

"Thank you, Louison," Enjolras said quietly, pressing the little pile to his chest. "I shall take them. You ought to dust this room and open it up. I do not think I will be coming back."


	3. Chapter 3

From that moment onwards, Enjolras lived. He lived, that is to say he breathed, he ate and slept a little, from time to time. His heart was beating and his limbs quickly regained their strength, his lungs were functioning properly and his brain was no less alert than ever. He lived as well as one could live with a hollowness inside his heart comprising 8/9th of the space.

At first, Enjolras was compelled to live quietly. His license completed a year previous, he now began his practice, quickly earning a reputation for taking on - and winning - only _pro bono_ cases that involved the wretched and downtrodden. In early 1833, supposing it safe now to continue revolutionary activity, Enjolras joined the _Société des droits de l'homme_, taking with him the few remaining members of his own group. They did not join them at the barricade, yet he did not hold it against them. Perhaps they will do better this time.

There was only one survivor apart from himself, Enjolras had realised. Passing one day by the Église Saint-Paul he saw announcements of the impending marriage between Monsieur Marius Pontmercy and a Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent.

Pausing by the door of the church, he contemplated whether it was worth visiting Pontmercy.

It was better this way, Enjolras decided at last. Pontmercy had moved on. He was going to be married and put behind him the horror and the carnage they had witnessed on the barricades. Though he did not agree, Enjolras understood. Not everyone had the same destiny as him.

Every Sunday, in the evening, Enjolras paid a visit to the Montmartre Cemetery. He had gone round all the cemeteries in Paris, inquiring after a fresh public grave made in June 1832. He was sure that they would all be buried there. None, as far as he knew, had left instructions for survivors, nor any identification. He remembered Courfeyrac's dazzling laugh as he shrugged off the idea.

_Who said we are going to die_? _And if I do, I want to be buried with you all, as brothers. That is my last will and testament. _

For the first time in his life, Enjolras began to notice flowers. That evening in August, he had seen poppies, daisies and cornflowers growing in abundance by the entrance and on the sides of the main promenade. They looked entirely fitting on the dark soil of the grave, livening up the bleakness with patriotic colours.

He knelt down by the side of the plot, passing his fingers over the surface. There was nothing to indicate the names of those inside, only a crooked wooden sign with the date. It mattered little, it was only fitting. They went to rejoin the anonymity of the people. Though they were heroes, it was not for glory that they fought.

Enjolras shivered. The evening was unusually cold. In the twilight, the red poppies strewn over the grave resembled drops of blood.

He had never thought to grudge them their deaths, nor to lament them. If they were dead and he was alive, it was only as it was meant to be. They had fulfilled their duty, he still had some remaining.

It was, however, cruel of Fate to deprive him of what had formerly provided the light and warmth in his life; to tear away from him brutally the only proper family he has ever had; to leave him feeling more a ghost than a man as he walked on those same streets as before only without someone by his side; to let him sit there on the damp ground, his arms wrapped around his body, trying to alleviate the terrible pain he felt every time another memory crossed his mind.

Every Sunday he came to the same spot, only then sensing that his heart was truly beating once more.

OOO

From then on, Enjolras became even more absorbed in his work. He slept little at nights, knowing that what he longed for most was to fill that gaping wound in his heart with dreams of life as it used to be. Instead, he worked feverishly, writing articles and letters in the dead of the night, knowing that he could derive from that a colder sort of pleasure.

Only from time to time did he permit himself to look up from his desk and around his room. Juvenal stood on a prominent place on his bookshelf, the violet protruding from the spine. The sketch of the moth and the paper with the language he discovered was Polish were nailed to the wall beside his desk. The glove was holding the coin, both lying on the windowsill. The handkerchief was spread under his inkwell and Enjolras made sure that not one drop of ink would stain it. The thesis on miasma was among his other papers and the sketch, straightened out to the best of his abilities, was as near to him as he could manage without risking damage from the candle.

In April 1834, barricades rose once again, first in Lyon then spreading to Marseille, Toulon, Grenoble, at last Paris. Three days were spent in triumph, Enjolras delighted with the progress of the people and the extent of the _émeutes_, jubilant at the news of Lyon abandoned to the rebels by Thiers. By this stage, almost two years after Chanvrerie, Enjolras was prominent enough in the _SDH_ to be put in charge of a barricade on the Rue de Montmorency, only ten minutes away from where the _Corinth_ once stood.

The smoke and gunshots that filled the narrow street made it harder for Enjolras to keep track of reality. Peering out above the crest of the barricade, he motioned for his second-in-command to join him there, they needed to evaluate the situation -

"Combeferre!"

Then with a painful jerk of the heart Enjolras realised what he had just said.

"Cloutier," he called again, clutching his rifle tighter, telling himself that now was not the time, that now the Revolution was calling and nothing he may be feeling mattered…

Cloutier climbed up to stand beside him.

"We'll hold," he said. "We've enough ammunition to last them out."

"Do you think?"

Enjolras had learnt from his previous experience.

Every minute of each day, although exhilarated by this new chance, determined to succeed this time or die, Enjolras felt different. Cloutier and the others were good men, brave soldiers and loyal patriots. He would have been proud to die side by side with them. Yet somehow the exaltation was colder, lonelier. Was that not Feuilly with a cohort of men ready to obey his instructions for the defence of their rear? The young student bandaging the injured could have been Joly. Where was the laughter, the commandeering of the omnibus, the poetry, even the drunken speeches that Enjolras had hoped never to hear again after that day?

They held for almost three days, then the Rue Transnonain dashed their hopes. A shot having been fired from that street, the National Guard massacred the inhabitants of No. 12, simultaneously launching a vicious attack on the remaining barricades. Faced once again by a hopeless situation, Enjolras would have done the only thing he thought honourable - stood and fought until death - but the leaders of the _SDH_ thought otherwise. They were forced to flee north into Montmartre and spend weeks in hiding until surveillance lessened.

"Enjolras," one of the leaders was admonishing him, "do you not recognise a lost cause?"

"I do," Enjolras said softly, "only I see no reason to abandon that which is lost."


	4. Chapter 4

Three Augusts have now passed, a fourth was approaching, grass and periwinkles have covered the harsh earth on the grave in Montmartre and Enjolras noted with surprise that he was about to go from being one of the youngest of the Amis to nearly the eldest. Time did not stand still.

From time to time he did unexpected things. Sometimes, he asked his tailor what cravats were fashionable at the moment and picked one out, wondering if Courfeyrac would have approved. Once, having found a caterpillar in the cemetery one day, Enjolras realised that he could not pass it by. His Monday morning was therefore occupied in trying to figure out what species it was and remembering all that Combeferre had said about taking care of them. When months later a spotted white butterfly was fluttering around his room, Enjolras was comforted by the thought that Combeferre would have been proud.

In the beginning of July 1835, the _SDH_ meeting place was shaken by a confidential rumour that someone was going to assassinate the King on his triumphal parade marking the 5th anniversary of the July Revolution.

The floor was split. Some insisted that this was an opportunity not to be lost, that the failures of 1831, 1832, 1834 demonstrated the need for another kind of action, that the people would surely rise with such an impetus.

Enjolras listened in silence to their arguments, then suddenly stood up.

"What this man is attempting," he said quietly, "is nothing more than dishonour to our cause. It is one thing to mount an armed struggle between two sides and expect deaths; it is quite another to plot a man's death behind his back, without a trial, without a judgement of the people, not in times of war but in peace. Though Orléans may well be found guilty of grievous crimes by the people, that has not been tried nor proven, neither can the people blame one man for the offences of a government, of a generation. Our cause can only be noble if it is fought out on the open, in the streets, among the people, not taken away from them into the hands of a minority. With all my respect to this _société_, I refuse to partake in this disgrace."

A small man, one of the loudest proponents of the plot, jumped up to his feet. "What, _citoyen_, you would disobey the will of this assembly? Even if this plan is upheld by common vote?"

"I will."

The small man's face twisted with anger. "Traitor!"

His words echoed across the room. "Traitor!" "Backstabber!" "Informer!"

"He's a spy, _citoyens_!"

Enjolras stood with his head held high, his lips curled disdainfully, surveying the room. Then, silencing the man with one cold glance, he turned to the table where the chiefs sat.

"Whether or not I deserve this abuse is for you to consider," he said. "As for the topic on hand, I beg you to remember the sacredness of our mission."

With a short bow he cut through the crowd and went out.

OOO

The gendarmes came for him in the early hours of the morning. It appeared that there had been a spy after all who had been frightened by the sudden denunciation of Enjolras and delivered all his information to the police. Enjolras had been caught by surprise and could mount no serious resistance.

He was taken to La Force and did not have to wait long in his cell before being hauled out again and into a small, bare room with two candles throwing macabre shadows on the face of a seated man.

"Monsieur Enjolras," he said, motioning for the guards to sit him down onto a chair, his arms twisted behind his back, "I hope that we shall be able to resolve this inconvenience without much damage done to your reputation. You are the son of a well-known family, your father's legacy is reported to have been great, I hear you have started a thriving law practice. In short, you have everything to live for."

Enjolras kept silent, contemplating the man with a disdainful smile.

"If you provide us with the information we need, I assure you that your sentence shall be significantly lighter."

If one squinted, the shadows thrown by the candlelight resembled figures. With only a little flight of imagination, that one in the corner could have been rubbing its nose with a cane.

"Monsieur, the names of the leaders in your organisation?"

With just a little more effort, another shadow could very well have patted the first on the back. A third one was sitting in profile and were those glasses it was wearing?

"You must have heard rumours of an assassination. Tell me all you know about it."

That one, somewhat apart, was also sitting down, surrounded by shadowy fragments that unfortunately seemed to be bottles. Of his own accord, Enjolras willed a ligher figure to float towards the first and put an arm around it.

"Monsieur, I warn you. This agreement only holds if you cooperate."

Now another shadow appeared on the scene, wearing a slightly flattened top hat. It really seemed as if it had just been drenched by the rain. Enjolras smiled, remembering a sudden downpour, laughter, glistening cobbles, wild cheers and -

His reverie was shattered by a sudden slap.

Losing his composure for a moment, Enjolras glared at the man with such ferocity that he staggered backwards. Then with a deep breath Enjolras focused back onto the wall beyond the man and the candles and the table. It was no use. He could do nothing except tune out the questions altogether.

So, clenching his teeth a little tighter with each new blow, Enjolras dreamed. He dreamed of a speech that he would most likely never have a chance to perform, of what he ought to say on his trial, of what his friends would have said could they see him now.

"Take him back to his cell!"

Enjolras tried to stand up and realised he could not. His head swam, the room swayed and twisted, there was blood on his shirt in many places and for some reason it was difficult to breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras's biggest regret was that they cut him short during the trial. The judge deemed his impassioned defence of liberty irrelevant and proceeded with the sentence which did not surprise Enjolras in the slightest.

His execution was set for the 14th of January.

On the last night, Enjolras couldn't sleep. Following in the footsteps of Robespierre and Saint-Just was not what he had foreseen for himself, expecting to die fighting on a barricade, yet it would do almost as well. If this was what the Republic wanted of him, this is what he would submit himself to.

What bothered him most was that his body would never be reunited with those that lay in the June 1832 public grave in the Montmartre cemetery, by now probably overgrown in the half a year he could not visit it.

For the first time in three and a half years Enjolras was glad that they were dead. Combeferre would not have borne it. Courfeyrac would have thrown the crumpled execution notice into the fire in the Musain, then called the rest together to concoct some mad plot. It was better that he was the last. It was fitting.

They came for him sooner than he expected. A whole group of men entered the cell. One man reached to tap him on the shoulder and was surprised to see his eyes already open.

"Stand up," another man instructed. "Prepare yourself."

The room was very cold. His fingers were too numb for the few buttons on his shirt and Enjolras had to breathe on them, demonstratively lest they think that he was afraid.

"Have you any last wishes?"

The answer suggested itself from the deepest recesses of his memory. _Être libre._

"None."

"Would you like to spend several minutes in the company of the priest?"

"No."

They proceeded to cut his hair at the back, roughly tugging at the locks, then cut off also the collar, leaving the neck exposed. Enjolras caught himself thinking that Courfeyrac would have protested.

"Will you write a letter to your family?"

He could, though he would have to address it _Montmartre_.

"No."

They led him out into the prison court, just in front of the gates, where another man was waiting. Enjolras stood patiently as they tied him up, the rope biting into his shoulders, wrists and ankles.

Then the prison gates opened and a pale light spilt into the gloomy court. They led him out, slowly since he could only take small steps. It was just dawning and the sky was a beautiful mixture of blues and pinks, lit up by the golden rays of the rising sun. Enjolras was content. There could hardly be a better day to die on.

Then he saw the guillotine, throwing an immense shadow on the frost-covered cobbles, the blade glittering cheerfully in the growing light. It seemed dreadfully ironic that one of the few reforms the monarchist government allowed the people to retain was the way they were to die.

"May God give you courage to behave valiantly," the priest said, approaching him. He made the sign of the cross and tried to kiss Enjolras on the forehead, which he avoided by tilting his head just in time.

There was no scaffold to mount, only a few final steps to make across the courtyard, taking a few final breaths of air. Some people were gathering around the plane trees at a distance.

Suddenly, Enjolras thought he heard a painfully familiar voice.

"It will only hurt a little."

He looked up and saw Combeferre.

"Combeferre? What - "

"Hush," Combeferre said, with a finger on his lips. He was standing there beside the guillotine, a little faded around the edges but otherwise as solid as he had always been. "You mustn't let them realise we are here."

"I am not afraid," Enjolras whispered. "Neither of the pain nor of death."

"I know you aren't," Combeferre smiled. "When have you ever been afraid? It is for my own comfort that I was saying that."

There was movement around the plane trees. Enjolras looked and saw something that suddenly made him feel lighter than air, as if an enormous weight had been removed and a weeping wound in his heart had been healed.

Seven people were walking - or rather gliding - across the square. Soon they were thronging around him, obscuring the guillotine and the little crowd in the distance.

"We thought we must come," Combeferre said. "Support our leader through this ordeal."

Courfeyrac was examining him from head to toe. "It pains me to look at you," he sighed. "You are so pale and thin you may as well be transparent. I should plague those bastards until their deaths for those bruises. Though somehow, you still manage to look the part. See how those ladies over there are staring?"

"You will make a beautiful angel," Prouvaire said, "with perfectly terrific scars. I think I envy you a little. My bullet holes cannot compare with the necklace they are going to give you."

"I'm surprised that you didn't die in prison," Joly called out. "The conditions are atrocious. It couldn't be easier to catch a malignant fever."

"Be glad that you aren't me," Bossuet laughed. "A thousand and one mishaps would have happened. The blade would slip, the woodwork collapse - "

"Don't," Bahorel said, patting him on the back. "He needs to be brave."

And from the smile and the glint in his eyes, Enjolras knew immediately that unlike the priest Bahorel had no doubts that he will be brave.

"You were right about the plot," Feuilly said. "The people must uplift themselves."

Grantaire, standing at the very back, was silent. Instead his eyes were fixed on Enjolras, tender and admiring.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Enjolras turned and saw the executioner that he forgot was even there.

"Kneel," he commanded.

With a triumphant smile Enjolras knelt, or rather threw himself into a kneeling position, impeded by the rope around his ankles. The morning air felt almost warm now.

"Take my hand," Combeferre said quietly. "It'll be easier."

And although in the back of his mind Enjolras knew that his hands were tied, it still felt as if Combeferre's warm fingers closed around his own.

From then on, all that they did to him melted away. The whooshing sound of the blade being pulled up merged with the rustling of leaves in the distance. All that Enjolras could see were the figures in a circle around him and a golden dawn breaking out above.

The officials of the prison and the executioner himself were haunted for a long time by that particular young man, executed for high treason at 7.45 in the morning of the 14th of January 1836. The execution did not spoil the unearthly beauty of that face, neither could the men ever forget the serene, contented smile on those lips.


End file.
